


If I were to die

by Moransroar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, oh and don't mind the warnings all too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jim Moriarty is asleep, who knows what haunts his dreams?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I were to die

He is trained to kill.

Completely drilled to the point where his mind and veins are filled with nothing else but rage towards the person of interest.

I know this, because I have seen it before, countless of times.

It’s in his eyes. They could be a warm, soft green, autumn leaves before they crumble and change colour, shrink and fall into a pile of their own rotten state. It’s nothing more than a dagger, expected to be plunged between clenched ribs, deflating lungs in an agonizing last scream.

I’m not like that.

_I don’t scream._

People scream for me. Yell for mercy, forgiveness, a last resort. If he is waiting for me to cringe away, avert my eyes and tense up my muscles, he is going to have to corner me like this with much greater force than he is currently doing. It doesn’t affect me, yet I have to do my best not to inform him of that fact. It works in the opposite way of which I want. All I can do is stand straight, back against the cool, rough, brick of the wall behind me, fingertips pressed against the damp.

It is November, and I wait patiently for that glistening green to fade, for the realisation to set in that I will not, nor will ever be afraid of him. He has no advantage over me whatsoever, but he can always try. I dare him. I dare you. Come and get me, darling. Slip that perfect shiny steel between the cracks in my skin, turn until my flesh rips apart and that beautiful crimson comes pooling out. Bathe in it, if you must. But do know that it is, and forever will be, mine.

If words cannot describe how people feel, then expression should not be able to, either. Face stone cold, expressionless, gathering clouds before the storm. And that one, slightly crooked smile that forecasts the heavy hurricane that is about to set in.

Set your foot in my storm, if you dare. I dare you. Come and get me, darling.

I know who you are, I know your history. Even though you may not know a single thing of relevance about me, I know every nook and cranny of your mind. Without your knowledge, or your acceptance, for that matter, I crawl where no-one has crawled before. Saunter ahead into abysses of what people throughout the years of defining laws and standards, have decided to call “the pure evil”.

Think of me what you will, but know that I will always have any advantage over you that I can have.

So, you’re good a fencing? Let me show you how deep my blades can cut through that silken skin of yours. Are you afraid to let crimson seep? Or would you rather define it as vermillion.  
Aren’t ordinary people adorable.

He dares come closer, I laugh. What a simple soul. Through the supposedly terrifying gaze – if looks could kill – I can see the roaring from within.

 

_Any moment now._

 

How do you think a beast would survive in a storm? I beg him to find out, pleading eyes as I beckon him closer. And closer. And closer. He doesn’t know, has no idea. But still, he moves towards me. Gravitational pull, that is called. And I can see that he realises that I have personally captured him in my orbit.

All revolves around me, and not even the strongest exotic animal can fight against mother nature. Nor can he heal the wounds that I inflict upon him.

For one, because he doesn’t know that yet, it’s like an internal bleeding on a place in the body without any vital organs. A virus, which slowly spreads through thin veins until it reaches your heart and bites itself in the muscle. Suddenly, like a miniscule parasite.

I have been reliably informed that I am a spider in a great web, waiting for my next victim to get tangled up in the fine strings. Aren’t I lucky today, my prey has come to me personally.  
It is savoury and sweet, a certain taste that lingers on the back of your tongue, fear. Some people have a nose for it, you know.

Now, I wouldn’t say either of us is afraid, but he has a certain waver in his step that indicates his hesitation. It must be the grin, that God-awful grin that has made the bulkiest of mafia bosses turn and run. Actually _run for their pathetic little lives._ It’s my signature, so to say. It puts people off. Keeps people at a certain distance that is definitely comfortable enough.

But this man, this one man dares come closer than anyone has ever before. And much to my own chagrin if not surprise.

I let him.

 

I must admit, my chest is heaving. But only with sharp intakes of rasped breath, elevated rise and fall of my chest because I do not run. I never run. I wouldn’t say I am lazy, but if you have people to do it for you, wouldn’t you?

This man, this awful man with fire in his veins and ice on his skin, a steel frame through which but the finest blade can slice, the best bullets can pierce. And I have found the cure. Or, perhaps it is more like poison. But then again, he has already found his own way into my world, I merely have to endure his company for as long as it lasts. And by the looks of it, I will only endure this tension for about a quarter of a minute. Endlessly to me, really.  
How do these things work, anyhow? A darkened figure, lurking against the faint light of the moon at night. It would almost be a ghost story. But this is not Halloween.

It is not real, either. I know that perfectly well. Because this man, the blond that hangs before his eyes, the shark-like snarl curling his lips, he would never even dare hold a blade against my throat. Sentiment. It is perhaps the only one who I would allow to come this close.

 

And now he will be the death of me.

 

I wouldn’t say I am surprised. It is a disadvantage that only he has managed to kindle in me. And it has been growing for as many days as he has been sitting in the draught on cold concrete, waiting for a target.  
It is surprising to me that this replicated version of him has taken silver to finish it. He must have left his dear Winchester in the warm confines of the wardrobe, neatly tucked away between Westwood and forgotten military trousers.

We are not complete opposites, no. But we are no yin and yang either. We are both the same colour. His has only greyed over the years of hovering between my world and whatever is considered “good”.

 

I see his smile. Bared teeth and bloodshot eyes.

 

 _And God, he is beautiful._

 

It is pure and utter bliss to finally feel that perhaps all too familiar sting, the electricity rushing through me in fervent sparks, fiery and fast, and the racing of my mind stops. It is a flash of silver, cold water and ice in my heart, settling to speed through my veins with the last desperate beats my heart makes.

Loose limbs and soft caresses of the expensive fabric against my skin as I fail. I have never failed before, and it is a whole new sensation to realise that I now have. But I have won, I am sure of that. 

Because the glint in those autumn greens does not contain that excitement anymore. The haze wears off, and the pain kicks in. And it is searing, by the looks of it. Like destroying a Da Vinci, shredding it to pieces only to realise that it was an original. You gather the shards in your hands and press them together in a desperate attempt to fix. But you can’t fix what was already broken before you destroyed it. And he knows that.

Like spring ends, and slowly nature’s course changes into summer, I feel the winds change. It is warmer, like a brush of lips, ghosting breath across ice cold skin. And in my inward tossing and turning, I can see him.  
Reciprocating my last laugh.

It is music to my ears, a symphony, a eulogy of perfect notes, arranged in the most beautiful of compositions. But for once, it gives me no peace.

Begging has no use anymore, nor would I ever degrade myself to a level such as that. But gentle hands find their way into my hair, tugging and pulling, fluttering my eyelids as I fall. The concrete is cold, and I ask myself why on earth the streets of London are so dimly lit.

The rushing of the cut has stopped, maybe because I cannot simply produce more to lose, and although my legs have far from given out, I am still upright, pressed straight to the rough surface at my back.

It is blissfully silent, except for the distant mentions of my name. And I give in to the certain pull that drags me towards the deeper end of the pool, beckons me to dip my head under water and breathe the melted snow.  
Darkness is full of secrets, yet I know exactly what lays behind closed curtains and is hidden by dimmed lights.

I feel heavy, but the force that pushes and pulls is not willing to let me go just yet. There is a particular surface to which I want to go, and after several attempts of struggle, I am able to crane my neck towards a sun.  
He is mine.  
He has always been, and he always will be.

 

And he knows.

 

He is gone now, but his voice rings through in my ears, the breathy laugh that sends me sprawling towards the concrete beneath me, which suddenly turns to the surface I have been craning my neck for.

 

Hands outstretched, they do not hit gravelly stone, but soft silk, sheets tangled around splayed limbs as that soothing voice echoes and lurks me into the growing dark. Its blackness is overwhelming, and my eyes cannot seem to get used to the burning, rough wind making them tear up.

But there is no rough wind, just hot breath as my eyelids flutter, and dark orbs meet that wonderful autumn green again, his face so close to mine in the lively streak of moonlight that illuminates blond as it seeps through the curtains.

 

And I am not afraid. I have never been afraid.

 

Because if I were to die, then please be it by your hands.


End file.
